King for a Day
by naturally morbid
Summary: AU. John Watson has dreamed of the day that he could be a real journalist. His chance comes when he is given an assignment to go undercover as one of rock music's oddest stars personal assistants to find out what makes him tick. John gets more than he bargained for when he finds himself falling head over heels for his assignment. But what happens when the assignment finds out?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Another AU one. Gotta start something new because my other Sherlock fic will be coming to a close in a couple of chapters and my in-Sherlock universe one is taking longer to plot out than I thought.

Sorry if this has been done before. Just an idea that popped into my head while at work the other day. I tend to love the personal assistant or boss-subordinate relationships.

Doubly sorry if anyone is OOC.

**Summary: **John Watson has dreamed of the day that he could be a real journalist. His chance comes when he is given an assignment to go undercover as one of rock music's oddest stars personal assistants to one Sherlock Holmes to find out what makes him tick. John gets more than he bargained for when he finds himself falling head over heels for his assignment and begins to ignore his work. However, all good things have an expiration date, especially when Sherlock discovers John's real identity. Will John be able to win him back?

**Rating: **M - just to be safe.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Sherlock characters. Title of the story is taken from a Pierce the Veil song. No money is made from this.

* * *

King for a Day

One

It's late one evening in my shared flat back at 221 Baker Street. The apartment is swank, I'll give it that. One year ago I never could have imagined a flat like this, much less imagined I would live in one. I'm just not sure how much longer I'll be living in it.

Three nights of insomnia are starting to take their toll.

I'm considering writing my story down, the story I was supposed to have been writing nearly a year ago after the day I met him.

Sherlock Holmes.

Known better as 'Lock' to the swarms of fans who scroll the papers, blogs, mobiles, etc. for a glimpse of him. Fans that wait outside the stage door in hopes to have that icy glare – which is one of the few real parts of his persona – turned in their direction. Vie for one of his shredded bows after he is finished.

'Lock' makes up one third of a group known as Lock, Croft, and Smoking Fox.

The other two thirds are Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, who messes about with the keyboard and computer, and Irene Adler, the front woman and voice of the group.

According to reviews, their sound is best described as 'haunting, operatic, and edgy. Lock's violin melds perfectly with Fox's classical voice, held together by Croft's masterful manipulation of electronics.'

Their music is the only thing that holds any of them together I can attest after a year of working with them.

Nearby, the phone is ringing. Sherlock is asleep and I ignore it. It's my editor calling once more to 'remind' – more like scream- that my story is way overdue.

So far, all I've typed is:

_My journey from journalism nobody to personal assistant to one of rock music's oddest celebrities._

_By John H. Watson_

The title has changed from 'I am SherLocked' to 'The Real Lock – Sherlock' to this.

The blinking bar is mocking me to type words that will not live up to the experience I have lived.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

I watch, mesmerized temporarily as I search in the recesses of my mind for the best way to start this story.

The most obvious.

The beginning.

But I don't want to sound self-centered. Sherlock would tell me that it's not being self-centered. Or at least, that's what he would say to me, if we were still talking.

I suppose he would know best, as he is the king of selfishness most days.

Alright.

The beginning.

Starting with me.

Below my name, I start with….'Ever since I could write, I've wanted to be a journalist…'

X

It all begins with my editor throwing a stack of papers and photographs onto my desk early one morning. I have just been in the midst of a call about securing more advertisements to help keep our meager paper going for one more year. The call was not going well.

"Hey!" I snap jumping up as glossy 8 x 11.5 photos slide from between the articles, spreading across my desk like a modern tribute to the little paper fans you received as a child. Lestrade blinks at me, wondering what the problem is. As if, it was perfectly natural to toss junk onto other people's things. "What's all this?"

"All this," he tells me, gesturing to the mess, "is your new story." Now it's my turn to gape and blink.

"But you don't usually let me out in the field," I say, despite the fact I do have a degree –from probably a million years ago- in journalism. Around the paper's office, I am 'desk jockey.'

"Yes. However, this article is going to put _The Daily Operator _back on the map." I keep my mouth shut that the best way to put the paper back on the map would be to update the name.

He stabs the top most articles with his forefinger. The picture is grainy, so I instead turn to the headline: 'Lock spotted on all night ben-' but I don't finish reading. The name is foreign to me.

"Who is this?"

"That," Lestrade tells me, this time gesturing to one of the 8 x 11.5s, "is Lock- real name Sherlock – of the trio Lock, Croft, and Smoking Fox."

"Let me guess, music?" I ask, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. The story must be quite important to Lestrade because he ignores me and forges on ahead.

"Yes. They are rock music's hottest group right now. They are on the tip of everyone's tongue." Lestrade continues dithering for what feels like minutes. I also refrain from pointing out that they're not on the tip of my tongue. Before today, I've never heard of them.

Give me something like The Cure or The Smiths any day. "But Lock," he tells me, pointing to a better picture, "is notorious for reckless behavior and a nasty temper."

Bloody typical rock star behavior if you ask me. But no one did.

I take a better look at the picture.

He doesn't look quite like the rock stars of old I remember, like Alice Cooper, Axel Rose, or even David Bowie. His hair hasn't been backcombed into a rat's nest, there's no trace of leather and studs in sight, and no glitter or outlandish makeup.

Instead, crystal-clear blue eyes are rimmed in eyeliner that looks borrowed from Robert Smith, a fitted black suit hides the majority of his skin, and dark curls fall almost over one eye. He's probably one of the most beautiful but tragic things I've seen in a long time.

But I fail to see how this is relevant to me and the clutter on my desk.

"So what?" I ask. "You want me to interview him?"

"No." I glance uneasily Lestrade's receptionist, Molly Hooper. She's biting her bottom lip; the red lipstick she is wearing today will surely be on at least one of her teeth.

"Then what?"

"You're going to be his personal assistant."

I laugh, cold and throaty.

"Elaborate joke Lestrade," I tell him, preparing to move the whole mess to the side of the desk.

"This is no joke, Watson. Do you want to be a journalist or not? I'm sure I could find someone else."

"And just how am I going to be his personal assistant?"

"I know someone, who knows someone else, that type of thing. Does it matter? He just terminated his last one, or he quit, I don't know. What I do know is that you're in and they're out. You'll be undercover."

"Lestrade, why am I doing this?" He has so far failed to give me a proper answer.

"Because I want to know his story, what makes him tick, the real Lock. The part of him that he keeps locked away. No other paper has that story."

"So I'm to be his personal assistant and become friends with him?" The article headlines I'm seeing do not make me believe my task will be a simple one at best. Words like 'argument' or 'condescending' jump out at me from the black and white.

"Yes. Word on the street is that celebs tend to divulge goodies to their personal assistants, mostly because they always seem to be there." The more I take a quick appraisal of Lestrade's research, the more daunting the task seems to be.

This man, at least on print, seems to be the most hateful creature on the planet according to his peers.

"I don't know," I say.

"Watson, you're the only person here who could do it. You're a nobody." I feel my temper rise. Lestrade senses that he has crossed a line. "I don't mean that the way it came out. I mean, this could be your big break." I'm still not biting. I'm considering a list of other jobs. "Do this for me, this one story and I can guarantee you another job with a better newspaper."

"How?"

"I have a friend at _The Daily Mail_," Lestrade tells me, "could get you on the staff there. Though, after the article here, you would probably be famous enough to choose your own path."

Now the offer seems more tempting.

I would be a real journalist. Writing stories that matter.

But why do I feel like I'm selling my soul to the very Devil himself?

"Alright," I finally agree, after keeping Lestrade in a few minutes of well-deserved suspense for the 'nobody' comment. "I'll do it."

"Good." He looks relieved, although I've probably contributed a few more grey hairs to his already graying head. He provides me with a laundry list of instructions, which include an interview with the group's manager just to be sure that 'I'm up to the task.' "I want frequent updates too," Lestrade tells me, handing over a PDA that looks quite expensive. Must come with the job.

Tomorrow, I start my new life at eight am.

Too bad it doesn't come with a more 'rock god' name than just John Watson.

X


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for all the reviews/favs/alerts! I really appreciate your support for this story!

Still rated M for brief language right now – better, sexier things later.

And a reminder, this is AU – so relationships, characters, etc have been twisted to suit my purposes. Hope no one is OOC, but please let me know if they are so I can either adjust them or do better next chapter :)

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, obviously I own these people – syke! I don't, not even close. And I receive no money for this either.

King for a Day

Two

Eight am finds me in a new part of town I've only seen in photographs. I'm shown into a waiting room that could almost be mistaken for a doctor's office, decorated in minimalist. There is one, very uncomfortable chair for me to occupy.

Eight thirty-three finds me still sitting, still waiting for an interview, about which Lestrade conveniently neglected to warn me about.

My eyes are red and rather puffy from staying up half the night pouring through research. I feel like a student who spent the night studying for an exam, only to wake up and find that he's forgotten all the answers.

I can't decide whether Sherlock is a man or a shark, or was perhaps eaten by a shark. Or maybe he ate the shark.

My head is all mixed up and I was so busy rushing out the door that I neglected coffee. I would kill for even a whiff of it right now. I tap my pencil on the inside of my thigh to keep myself alert.

Just when I feel the sandman crawling over my shoulder, a woman stomps in at nine o' four. Tight curls fall around her slender shoulders and I can see that she would be very attractive if she would just smile.

She's holding a clipboard, her mouth drawn in a thin line, and she's wearing one of those looks that says "Do not fuck with me." She glances up at me finally.

"Sally Donovan," she tells me, as we exchange a brief but firm handshake. "Follow me." I stand up and find myself nearly running to keep up with her long, purposeful steps. She's explaining what is probably the strangest interview process I've ever heard. "I'm going to stick you in a room with him and if he doesn't immediately throw you out, then you're good. We're desperate at this point."

She pauses and gives me a good looking over. "You seem good for the job. Not the usual fan girls and boys we hire for him. Experience?"

"Er, not exactly."

"Better that way. Lestrade seemed confident enough that you were the man for the position. You'll learn on the job, provided he doesn't toss you immediately." She shoves me into a room and slams the door. I can't help but feel like a lamb to the slaughter.

The room seems comfortable enough, just a common room, with scattered furniture, and a lone man.

The man.

He's fiddling around with his phone, thumbs working overtime while lounging on a feinting couch. He doesn't seem to notice my entrance. I stand there for a few minutes, sweat rolling down my back, beneath my good shirt. I didn't own anything rock star enough to wear in public.

I clear my throat and wait.

Without looking up at me he snips, "Fetch me a coffee." My jaw falls open. "Now." Yeah, typical rock star behavior.

"How do you take it?"

"Hot and wet. How do you think? I've no time for your inane questions!" He snaps at me, only taking a brief look at my face. "Jesus Jim, do I have to do everything?" Dramatically, he drapes his long legs and arms over the sides of the couch in repose.

What is my hourly rate for this again? Surely, having my toenails ripped out with pliers and my fingers fed to lions would be a better job than putting up with this awful man all day, even for a story.

"Fine," I tell him, stalking out of the room, "hot and wet it is." From someone else. I would have to be insane to take this job. On my way out the door, I nearly crash into Sally, who has been waiting impatiently it would appear from her tapping foot and chewed fingernails.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He called me Jim, asked for coffee, and damn near had my head off with only words. I can't do this." She latches onto my arm, rough fingernails digging into the soft flesh.

"You can't leave," she tells me, her voice dropping any hint kindness – it's like something out of a horror film. "If you leave, I have to fill in." I don't know if it was the death grip on my arm or the fine wrinkles around her mouth that won me over – I figure my arm.

"Fine," I sigh, "I'll do it." And make just enough to check myself into the nut house afterwards, because I must be utterly insane to agree to this –even for journalism recognition.

"Good. Because otherwise, I was going to have to tie you to a chair and burn you with cigarettes until you agreed." I can't tell if she is joking.

"Alright, but what about the coffee?"

"Black." At least he isn't one of those frou-frou type guys that back the line up at Starbucks with things like Double mint macchiato with three shots of espresso and a sprig of holly or something.

"And why did he call me Jim?"

"That was his very first assistant, we're talking ages ago. Drove him actually, proper insane. Lock calls them all Jim." Oh good. All personal freedom is being removed; I'm being given a new name, and 'someone-else's-bitch' status.

We're now walking toward a kitchenette near a sound room.

Ah, recording studio I guess. I can hear strains of what I presume is someone working on her vocal parts for a song down the hallway – Irene I believe her name is from my research.

"Who do you usually work with?"

"Irene Adler, or Smoking Fox," Sally tells me. "She's at least manageable, with decent shoe sense." I roll my eyes -women.

Thankfully, there is a coffee maker. Sally grabs a Styrofoam cup, fills it to just an inch below the rim and hands it to me.

"Deliver that to him and come right back. I'll fill you in then." I stalk back down the hallway, managing to spill the piping hot coffee on my hand, and use all my choice curse words in response to my own stupidity.

My subject still doesn't look at me as I thrust the coffee out to him. He takes it, almost without looking, still thoroughly involved with his phone. I suppose I'm off the hook, as I stomp back to the door.

"Jim! You've spilled it all down the side! I can't drink this." I am fairly sure I growl as I spin around. He's holding the coffee between his forefinger and thumb, as if it's a dirty pair of knickers he's just discovered on his breakfast plate.

I don't know how I grab the cup without crumbling the foam or throwing the remainder of the drink down the front of his pressed shirt, which is a lovely deep plum.

I stalk out of the room once more, to join Sally in the kitchenette, where she seems expectant. I wonder if that's just her default expression when she's not interviewing new trainees.

"Ready for-"

"No. I've bloody spilled coffee down the side of this bloody cup and he can't bloody drink it."

"Oh yeah. That's on the list I think," she tells me very calmly, consulting her clipboard.

"L-List?" I sputter, grabbing another cup from the stack and filling it once more.

"Yes, there's a list of all the do's and don'ts previous assistants have cobbled together."

"Oh, a whole list should make working for that psychopath easier," I mutter. This cup is, thankfully, spill free.

"Sociopath actually," Sherlock tells us from the doorway. I watch, my mouth hanging open and loose like a caught fish with a hook, as he comes and takes the cup from me, disappearing once again. "Faster next time Jim. Do something about him, Sally?"

"That part is actually true," Sally tells me with a sigh, placing her hands on her hips, once he's out of earshot. "A doctor confirmed it once for us."

I sit down in a nearby chair, taking a gulp of the discarded coffee. It's bitter but helps. Sally sits beside me, her 'bitch' façade crumbling a miniscule piece at a time.

"Are you sure you can't live without me?" I am not relishing the thought of days and nights with this man. "I mean, surely, someone else would be better qualified."

"We've tried those. So far you've lasted longer than the last one. At least, he didn't throw the coffee at your head. You don't want to know what we had to pay the last one to keep from suing us."

I tell her that I can imagine.

"He does realize that I'm a different person, right? I mean, he's not completely bonkers."

"Yes. Look, in your resume," she tells me, pulling a couple of sheets of paper from her ledger, "you said you had a brief experience with the army?"

"Very brief. I went to report and was injured nearly right away." It's not an experience I care to recall right then.

"But you must have done research, or picked something up over there, correct?" I nod. "Then you, of all people, should know that it's just a tactic." Well, she did have a point. "Just try it, for a week?"

"Alright."

"He does this to everyone you know. Even his own brother." Just as I work up enough sympathy for anyone related to my new boss, Sally continues. "Of course, Mycroft gives back as good as he gets. They're rather alike."

Oh great, as if one wasn't enough. I didn't discover much about Mycroft during my research. I hadn't realized they were two peas in a very ill fitting pod.

"I won't be held responsible for him too will I?"

She chuckles, darkly. "No. Anderson watches him. You'll meet him later. Anyway, I've got things to fill you in on, since Sherlock is taken care of right now."

She's fond of paper and printouts the way Lestrade is. I have a small forest in my hands to read over, sign, and file away.

I do have an office-which I will probably never see Sally informs me. A PDA to keep up with his schedule, a car service that will always pick me up first, and access to all areas I please.

"I don't have to live with him, do I?" I ask, wondering when I am going to have time to sleep in between everything.

"Not this first week."

"Oh go-wait."

"Well, that's the catch with Sherlock. The label is threatening a roommate if he can't keep himself under control. Or it's house arrest next time."

"Under control?"

"You know…" She mimes excessive drinking and pill popping.

"So that's not just for show."

"No, I'm afraid not. So far, he's been better…after this last rehab." Which I recall was about a month or two ago. "But, that might not happen," she tells me hopefully, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to knock me forward.

Being around him for hours every day or night seems bad enough, I can't imagine living with him.

Filling in the paperwork takes hours; it's things like 'I won't sue them if he tries to kill me,' 'I won't try to steal ideas,' etc. All in legal jargon. I almost expect the pen to be filled with blood instead of ink by the time I'm done signing my life away.

"Go home. Get a good night's rest. You'll need it, trust me. George will be 'round at seven thirty, bright and early to get you. Program Lock's schedule into your phone. He has a photo shoot tomorrow I believe."

She hands me more paper.

"And be sure to read over the list." She hands me what looks like an appliance manual that has been literally cobbled together, written on napkins, bits of spare paper, even a piece of what looks like a bit of light leather trousers.

Read over the list, huh? No, I'll be typing it up properly if I am going to be doing this job.

If I survive this, I'll be a fitter, more organized journalist with a passion for conservation.

X


End file.
